


This and Who I Used to Be

by ThrillingDetectiveTales



Category: The Tick (TV 2017)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales
Summary: “Per the verdict of the Farvari Tribunal, fugitive 11-X may be remanded to the care of any suitably sentient being with which he has initiated a bond ofparchat.As fugitive 11-X’s intended bondmate, do you accept responsibility for him over a probationary period of fifteen Earth years or one-hundred fifty thousand hours spent in service to the safety and betterment of the planet’s population, whichever comes first?”“I - ” Arthur squints. “What?”Telzara clenches her jaw and sighs through her nose, yanking Superian forward. He trips on the carpet as he stumbles up and would probably land flat on his face if not for her iron grip on the collar of his vest. She gives him a little shake, like she’s scruffing a misbehaving puppy.“Will you take him?” she clarifies, every word landing like a lead weight in the air between them.
Relationships: Arthur Everest/Superian (The Tick 2017)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	This and Who I Used to Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fenellaevangela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenellaevangela/gifts).



> Happy Rare Male Slash Exchange, recipient!
> 
> [Title credit to The Avett Brothers' "The Greatest Sum."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuBXJe36x9s)

Arthur and the Tick have just finished their evening patrol and are settling in on the sofa with Tinfoil Kevin and a couple of pies from Pompeii Gardens Pizza. They're gearing up to enjoy a few rerun episodes of some early nineties sitcom the Tick has developed an affinity for, when a sharp trio of knocks sound at the door, hard enough to rattle the flimsy plywood in its frame.

Arthur frowns at the Tick and Tinfoil Kevin in turn, but each of them blink up at him with wide, guileless eyes, making no move to get up. 

“I’ll get it,” Arthur sighs, and pushes to his feet. It is his apartment after all. He supposes it’s only fair.

It’s a little bit late for guests, unexpected or otherwise, so Arthur isn’t quite sure what he’s going to find. Considering the current superheroic trajectory of his life, he hesitates with his hand on the knob and calls, “Who is it?”

An unfamiliar voice starts to say something that Arthur can’t quite parse and then Superian’s buoyant tenor drowns it out.

“Arthur! Arthur, it’s me! Superian!”

Arthur’s frown deepens, because Superian sounds sort of wobbly, all his syllables slipping and sliding into each other. It’s not unlike how he sounded when he was heavily under the influence of big bismuth, and Arthur’s stomach flips and twists itself into a cold knot. He undoes the lock and yanks the door open, demanding, “Superian, what - ”

He cuts off abruptly. It is Superian, out here in Arthur’s hallway making a ruckus at ten P.M. but he’s not alone. There’s a woman with him, dark skin and dark eyes with a face all made of severe angles. She’s wearing a full-body outfit not unlike the one Superian dons while fighting crime, though her bodysuit and engraved chestplate are opalescent white, where Superian’s is the color of tarnished steel, and her cape is a shifting teal like deep ocean water, in contrast to Superian’s red. She’s holding Superian up by his collar like it takes absolutely no effort at all where he’s threatening to melt into the hideous carpeting lining the hall, and Arthur realises with distant terror that he’s meeting a second being from whatever far flung homeworld Superian originated on.

This, he considers, cannot end well.

“Arthur!” Superian repeats cheerfully when he sees him. He grins up at the woman, eyes narrowed in smug triumph. Some wordless sentiment passes between them, and the woman rolls her eyes.

She pins Arthur with an imperious look, arching one sharp brow, and raises her chin. “Arthur Everest?”

“Um,” Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah?”

The woman lets her gaze wander down the length of his body and back up again, looking decidedly unimpressed. Arthur becomes immediately aware that he’s wearing a pair of threadbare sweatpants and an undershirt that’s been through the wash so many times it’s barely retaining any structural integrity whatsoever. He flushes and shifts his weight again, but it _is_ well after working hours. He refuses to apologize for prioritizing comfort over style in his own home.

“My name is Telzara Vol-Kir,” the woman explains. “I have come to deliver fugitive 11-X, Zal-Teth, known on your homeworld as - ” she sighs, flicking her eyes skyward, and curls her lip like the word leaves a foul taste in her mouth as she sneers _“ - Superian_ into your custody.”

“Into my - ” Arthur starts, and then his mind catches up with the rest of that sentence. He squints, eye twitching the way it does when he gets overwhelmed, and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘fugitive?’”

The woman, Telzara, dips her chin in a nod and then jerks her head toward Superian where he’s slumping in her grip. “We’ve been on the hunt for fugitive 11-X for quite some time. We searched fifteen star systems and thirty-two planets, asteroids, and intergalactic waystations before we discovered him on your orbiting moon.”

Belatedly, Arthur notices the glittering manacles around Superian’s wrists. He couldn’t begin to guess at what mineral they’re made of, but they’re having a profound effect on Superian, who blinks over at Arthur with hooded, blown-black eyes and offers him the lopsided, syrupy grin of the completely stoned.

Arthur squints at him. “What were you doing on the moon?”

“You wanted me to take a walk!” Superian slurs, accusatory. He tries to shrug, but between Telzara’s grip on his collar and whatever the manacles are doing to him, it becomes an awkward upper-body roll that results in his head flopping back against the wall with a heavy _thunk_ that makes the lights flicker overhead. Superian wrinkles his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, making a little, stilted sound of pain as he straightens back up again, leaving behind a crack in the plaster. Some of it comes away in his hair, fine white powder dusting his mussed curls.

Arthur opens his mouth to ask how, precisely, Superian extrapolated that the moon, of all places, was an ideal locale upon which to follow Arthur’s simple instruction, but Telzara interrupts before he can verbalize his disbelief.

“Per the verdict of the Farvari Tribunal, fugitive 11-X may be remanded to the care of any suitably sentient being with which he has initiated a bond of _parchat._ As fugitive 11-X’s intended bondmate, do you accept responsibility for him over a probationary period of fifteen Earth years or one-hundred fifty thousand hours spent in service to the safety and betterment of the planet’s population, whichever comes first?”

“I - ” Arthur squints. “What?”

Telzara clenches her jaw and sighs through her nose, yanking Superian forward. He trips on the carpet as he stumbles up and would probably land flat on his face if not for her iron grip on the collar of his vest. She gives him a little shake, like she’s scruffing a misbehaving puppy.

“Will you take him?” she clarifies, every word landing like a lead weight in the air between them.

“I’m just,” Arthur starts, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of his nose just under his glasses. “I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to, exactly, so - ” His shirt shifts around him and he glances down to discover that Superian has his hands fisted in the fabric. 

His pale hazel eyes are wide and hopeful, brow furrowed despite the persistent grin curling his mouth as he coaxes in a low rumble, “C’mon, Arthur. Say you’ll take me? Please?” His expression wavers for a second, desperation seeping in at the edges, and he leans forward so his chin is resting on his knuckles, breath hot over Arthur’s stomach as he delivers in a stage whisper, “I don’t want to go to jail.”

Behind him, Telzara rolls her eyes.

“Oh my G- ” Arthur shakes his head, pressing his mouth into a thin, furious line. “Fine,” he hisses, and fixes Superian with his most withering glare. Superian doesn’t seem to notice, too busy beaming up at Arthur and narrowing his gaze smugly at Telzara in turn. “But we’re having a serious discussion about all this once you’ve sobered up.”

“On your feet, fugitive,” Telzara barks, and hauls Superian up into a reasonable facsimile of standing. He sways from side to side and holds his hands out to her, still grinning like the cat that got the canary and the cream. 

Telzara passes her palm over his bound hands and the manacles withdraw, sliding back in on themselves until they’re nothing more than a flat, dusky rock. Telzara whisks it away into some pocket on her uniform that Arthur couldn’t find if he tried and then shoves Superian toward him.

Superian goes willingly, and manages to stay on his feet by virtue of a clumsy arm slung around Arthur’s shoulders while Arthur grunts in protest and clings to the doorframe to maintain his own balance.

Telzara meets Arthur’s eye and gives him a brisk nod. “We’ll be checking in.”

“What?” Arthur says. “What does that mean?” But Telzara is already gone, just the suggestion of movement left shimmering in the air in her wake. Arthur glances down to where Superian has one cheek pressed against his shoulder, humming something off-key and unintelligible with his eyes closed. Arthur sighs. “Let’s get you inside.”

He hauls Superian in until he can prop him against the wall while he shuts and locks the door behind him. When he looks back over, Superian is smiling at him, soft and lazy. He swings a finger in Arthur’s direction, a broad, sloppy motion, and announces, “I knew you’d say yes.”

“Technically I said fine,” Arthur rebuts. He gestures down the hallway toward the kitchen—which leads on to the bedroom, as Superian well knows—and sighs, “Come on. I don’t know what those handcuffs did to you, but you should probably lie down and have a glass of water or something.”

He winds up with a hand on the small of Superian’s back, guiding him forward while Superian keeps one palm firmly braced against the wall to hold himself upright. 

The Tick and Tinfoil Kevin look up when they cross into the living room. They take the scene in for a second and then the Tick frowns, eyes flicking curiously between Superian, where he’s slouching slowly forward, and Arthur at his back.

“Everything alright, chum?”

Superian shoots them a wobbly thumbs-up and Arthur sighs.

“Yeah,” he says. “Everything’s fine, Superian’s just - ” he searches for an appropriate explanation for a long moment and shakes his head when he can’t do better than, “not feeling well.”

The Tick nods as though this makes perfect sense and intones in his usual ebullient fashion, “Should you require aid in combating whatever foul flu has felled our super friend from beyond the stars, simply say the word and we shall strike it down in sweet Destiny’s name!”

“I think we’re alright, Tick,” Arthur says, and can’t help grinning a little. “Thanks.”

The Tick nods and settles back into the sofa, immediately collapsing into loud, breathless guffawing at whatever’s going down on-screen.

Arthur ushers Superian on toward the bedroom and detours to the sink to fill a glass with tap water. He scoops a couple of ice cubes out of the forgotten tray in the freezer, feeling vaguely embarrassed that he’s not better equipped to take care of an ailing superhero. He thought he’d learned his lesson last time Superian was sleeping off a bismuth hangover in his bed. Not that he has quite as much sympathy for Superian this time around, as this is clearly something he brought upon himself.

He wonders what it means that he’s technically harboring an intergalactic criminal and decides in rapid succession that a) he doesn’t really want to think about it right now, or ever, maybe, and b) E. Morgan Pearl can never, _ever_ find out about Superian’s sordid backstory. If he does, it’ll be open season on the hero in the court of public opinion, and Superian hasn’t exactly been a beacon of unflappable self-confidence and mental stability of late.

When Arthur makes it back to the bedroom, Superian is sprawled out across his mattress and halfway disrobed. His vest and flannel are crumpled onto the floor next to his boots and a pair of dark grey wool socks, leaving him in just jeans and an undershirt. Arthur’s brain experiences a mild short circuit as he realizes he’s never seen Superian barefoot before. He wonders if anybody has. Surely, in the last hundred years, there must have been a few others, at least, but even then Arthur guesses that it’s probably a fairly exclusive list.

He doesn’t know quite how to feel about that, so he pushes the thought aside and ignores the warm flutter in his stomach in favor of resting his hand on Superian’s knee and giving it a little shake.

“Hey,” he says, and Superian cracks an eye open. Arthur brandishes the glass. “Brought you some water.”

Superian sits up with a groan, shuffling over just far enough for Arthur to sit beside him, so he does. Superian puts off heat like a furnace under normal circumstances, and it’s even worse while he’s burning through whatever alien drugs are still lingering in his system, but Arthur can’t quite bring himself to mind. Superian downs the water in a few swift, grateful gulps and sets the empty glass aside. He scrubs a hand over his mouth and then turns and looks at Arthur—he seems more himself, now, though that fond sheen is still glittering in his eyes.

“So, Zal-Teth,” Arthur says, because his brain-to-mouth filter has never really operated at peak capacity.

Superian winces and covers it up with a laugh. “Zal-Teth,” he agrees, in a wry drawl. He’s quiet for a minute, staring in the general vicinity of his knees. He takes a deep, slow breath after the silence has stretched on just long enough to be uncomfortable and admits, “Nobody’s called me by that name in over a century.”

“Should we?” Superian looks so honestly taken aback by this question that Arthur scrambles to clarify, “I mean, do you want people to call you Zal-Teth? Your publicist could send out a press release or something, if you did. It wouldn’t be that hard to get people onboard, probably.” He considers for a second, the sheer volume of people in the world who share a temperament with E. Morgan Pearl, and amends, “Not _everybody_ would do it, but I bet most people would, if you asked. I would.”

Superian snorts, soft and affectionate, and shakes his head. “That’s very kind of you, Arthur, but, no. Zal-Teth is…” Superian tilts his head back, squinting thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I left Zal-Teth behind when I boosted that transfer pod and came to Earth.” He cuts Arthur a dry look and smirks, “Or I tried to, anyway.”

Arthur grins back at him, small but honest, and Superian shakes his head again, gaze turning inward. 

“Superian was supposed to be my second chance.”

Arthur lets him stew in his introspection for a while before curiosity gets the better of him. He nudges Superian’s shoulder with his own, and when Superian blinks over at him he asks, “What did you do, exactly, anyway? I’m guessing it was...pretty bad, if they were willing to spend all this time looking for you.”

“That is difficult to explain,” Superian says, slow and careful, “without adequate contextual knowledge of shipping restrictions in the Mauritzius Quadrant. It’s probably not as bad as you’re thinking.” He makes a face and leans in so close they’re pressed together from shoulder to elbow, confessing in a low rumble, “My people are kind of uptight when it comes to rules and regulations.”

Arthur snorts before he can help himself and presses, “I’m willing to bet it wasn’t just littering.”

Superian groans and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes before flopping back onto Arthur’s mattress so hard that Arthur bounces with the force of it. The bed frame creaks warningly but holds. Superian sighs and threads his fingers together, bringing his interlaced hands up to curl over the top of his head.

“Functionally, I guess you could equate my position to that of a getaway driver.”

“A getaway driver,” Arthur parrots, while his eyebrows make an admirable bid to disappear into his hair. “So, what, you robbed someone?”

“I facilitated escape for a group of individuals who robbed someone without my knowledge or direct involvement,” Superian corrects.

“I don’t know, that’s still more adjacent to robbery than I would have expected, from you.”

Superian pushes up onto his elbows. He narrows his eyes at Arthur and says, “You seem really stuck on this, Arthur. Should I be worried?”

It’s not a warning, exactly, but Arthur recognizes that there are moments where retreat is the better part of valor, and so he changes tack and asks another question that’s been weighing on him since Telzara’s severely lacking explanation. “What’s par-shot?”

“What?”

“Par-shot. It sounded like some kind of ceremony or something, from the way that Telzara woman said it.”

“Ah,” Superian says, and proceeds to flush pink all the way out to his ears. He lies back down, letting his arms fall to his sides, and Arthur marvels at the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s seeing Superian blush. He didn’t even know Superian had the capacity for such a human display of emotion. It’s kind of fantastic. He wonders vaguely how hot Superian is to the touch where his skin is flooded with color and his fingers twitch against his thighs, even as Superian continues, “You mean parchat.”

He pronounces it almost like there’s a ‘z’ in the word somewhere, and Arthur nods, twisting at the waist and drawing one of his legs up onto the mattress underneath him so he can get a clearer view of Superian’s face.

“That’s what I said.”

“Parchat,” Superian continues, with the kind of level intonation that suggests he’s taking extra care in his wording, “is - I guess you could consider a kind of a ceremony.”

Arthur presses his palm down against the duvet, leaning in as he asks, “What’s it for? And why did Telzara think you and I were...what did she call us? Bondmates?”

The look Superian sends his way is agonized, his smile nearer to a grimace than anything else. “Why don’t we go back to talking about the robbery thing?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Just tell me. I'll figure it out eventually, even if I have to do it on my own."

Superian watches him for another long second, jaw tight, and Arthur reminds him pointedly, "The entire world thought the Terror was dead, and I found him. Hunting down an obscure alien ritual might take me awhile, but I like my chances."

Superian heaves a miserable sigh, so deep it leaves a thin layer of frost on the dingy plaster of Arthur’s ceiling where his breath hits. “It’s a courtship thing,” he says, so fast that Arthur almost can’t understand him.

He blinks and shakes his head, because he’s pretty sure he _didn’t_ understand Superian, now that he thinks about it. “I’m sorry,” he laughs, just this side of hysterical, “could you say that one more time? Because I could have sworn you just told me that par-shot is a courtship ceremony.”

Superian raises his eyebrows and offers Arthur a sheepish, slightly queasy smile. He’s very, very pink.

“Wh - I - ” Arthur blusters, and feels a similar hot tide rising under his own skin. “Why would you tell her we were involved in a courtship ceremony together?”

Superian frowns a little, confused. “Because we are? I initiated parchat a couple of weeks ago, when I took you to Guatemala, remember?”

Arthur’s voice sounds very far away when he speaks. “I think I would remember us broaching the topic of courtship.”

“Well,” Superian hedges, “maybe not in so many words. But, I took you to an exotic locale and brought you an offering of sustenance, which you accepted. And then! Then, I came to you for advice with an intimate problem, and you accommodated me! More than once!” He ticks these things off on his fingers as he says them, in that mulish tone that means he’s gathering that he did something incorrect by measure of human social norms but isn’t ready to admit it yet, and the world starts to tilt a little at the edges of Arthur’s vision. Superian’s frown deepens and he pushes up onto his elbows again, peering worriedly over at Arthur. “Are you okay? Your heart rate is through the roof.”

“I’m - I’m fine,” Arthur says weakly.

“You don’t look fine,” Superian disagrees. He sighs, and wraps one big hand around Arthur’s wrist, pulling him down and tucking him against his—very warm and surprisingly comfortable—side. Superian slips his arm around Arthur’s shoulders and Arthur lets his cheek rest against Superian’s chest, because it seems like the sort of thing that might as well happen, the night has already gone so far off the rails. It takes him a second to realize that the odd, two-toned beat he can hear is Superian’s pulse, drumming steadily away under his skin.

“Why do you have two heartbeats?” Arthur mumbles, unwilling to raise his head high enough to speak. The fragile peace surrounding them feels liable to shatter if exposed to too much movement. This close, Superian smells like your standard, musky men’s cologne, and something that makes Arthur’s nose tingle the way it always does just before it starts to rain. Yet another intimate certainty about Superian that Arthur has been made privy to while the rest of the world is left to guess.

“Two hearts,” Superian shrugs, and Arthur’s body rises and falls a little with the motion. He wonders how many people know _this_ about Superian and that warm, wild fluttering starts to beat furious wings in Arthur’s stomach again.

They lie there for a while, curled together horizontally across Arthur’s mattress, while the distant roar of the Tick’s amusement and Tinfoil Kevin’s occasional rasping chuckle filter through from the living room on a wave of canned laughter. Once Arthur feels like he can breathe again he turns his head just far enough that he can speak clearly and asks past the sick twist of fear in his throat, “So, when you say you initiated this par-shot thing, you mean you did it on purpose, right? It wasn’t some kind of, I don’t know, some kind of accident? Or - or a cover, for your whole - ” he waves a hand in the air “ - fugitive from justice, situation?”

“I did it on purpose,” Superian says, in a smaller voice than Arthur is used to hearing from him. It makes Arthur’s whole body tingle like a rung bell.

“Okay,” Arthur says, feeling slightly woozy. He rests his head back down against Superian’s chest and slowly, carefully, situates his arm across Superian’s waist.

Superian wraps the fingers of his free hand around Arthur’s wrist, gentle and cautious, and strokes absently at his shoulder with the other. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Arthur nods. “I mean, you’ll have to kind of explain to me how it goes and what I’m supposed to do and stuff. And there are some, y’know.” He pauses and clears his throat. “Some human courting rituals we should probably work in there, just to be, I don’t know. Thorough, or whatever but, um. Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay,” Superian agrees, firm and sweet, and the flutter in Arthur’s belly opens up into the same sprawling, limitless joy he feels when he flies.


End file.
